"Tell grandfather that I am pleased to have been of assistance and that I would be honored to meet his entire family-when I am recovered."

An uncle replaced the grandfather. Then cousins and aunts, the boy's mother, fighting back tears, even neighbors. Stratton thought it would never end.

"Kangmei, let's get out of here."

"This is a Zhuang tradition and, for you, a great honor. We cannot offend these people."

A few minutes later, while a portly man whose relationship to anyone seemed only dimly established spoke at length in a politician's growl, Kangmei said suddenly:

"You are very handsome."

"Did he say that?"

"He says all the usual things. I say that."

"Come with me, please, to America."

"I cannot."

"I love you."

"This man is the best friend of the boy's mother's second sister and he wishes to convey to you… "

Stratton noticed a commotion at the door. Three men came in. Peasants made way for them.

"The leaders of the commune," Kangmei whispered.

Stratton nodded. Their bearing alone made that clear.

The commune president wore an impeccable white shirt outside his belt. His were the first clean fingernails Stratton had seen all day. The vice-president was a me-tooer, handsome and suave. They were both Han Chinese, their lighter skin and sharper features distinguishing them immediately in the room of Thai-like Zhuang. They came forward smiling, hands outstretched.

"Comrade president explains that he was at a regional meeting and has only just returned. He has heard of your bravery and would like… "

The third man in the delegation was old and fat. He had a cruel saucer face that made smiling a parody. He walked with a cane. The sleeve of his jacket was pinned neatly to his right shoulder. The absence of the arm, and the limp, gave him a sinister, off-balance appearance.

"… regrets that the comrades in Peking had not informed him of the arrival of such a distinguished guest or he would have come personally to Bright Star to welcome you," Kangmei translated. "Don't worry about that, Thom-as. After tonight no one will ever ask for your papers and he will be afraid to ask Peking why they did not tell him."

The saucer-faced man's smile had vanished. He rocked back and forth on his cane.

He shuffled to the left and right to measure Stratton from different angles.

Stratton's eyes never left him.

"… will offer a banquet of welcome and thanksgiving within the next few days and pledges full cooperation of all of the commune work brigades and production teams in your work. You have only to ask-"

"Kuei!" The word can mean either ghost or devil. In this case, it was doubly apt.

Screaming, the old man lunged with the cane, jabbing with it as more than a decade before he had jabbed Stratton with his truncheon.

Time had not been kind to the old man. Stratton easily parried the blow. He wrenched away from the cane, sent it spinning to the far corner of the room, and tried to look aggrieved.

The old man's voice cracked with fury. His eyes bulged. The muscles in his neck corded. He threw himself on Stratton, splintering the chair. They rolled to the floor, the old man striking repeatedly with the only fist Stratton had left him.

Stratton covered up protectively. He did not fight back. It would not last long.

It didn't. The peasants pulled the old man off and built a human fence between him and Stratton. Stratton didn't even bother getting to his feet. Instead, he scrambled over to the wall and leaned against it, waiting for what he knew must come.

Quivering, weeping, the old man shouted in a high, reedy voice. Within seconds a hush had fallen over the dispensary waiting room.

Kangmei translated. She needn't have bothered.

"The old man was the head of the Public Security Bureau in Man-ling for many years-the top policeman. He knows you. He says you are an American spy who came to spy and to kill. Everybody will remember the night, he says. The night of the heroic people's victory. The old man says he saw you then. He talked to you. You killed cadres. You shot him twice, once in the leg, once in the arm." Kangmei's voice jumped an octave, almost falsetto. "He says-"

Stratton had heard enough. He dug his nails into Kangmei's arm.

"That's enough, Kangmei. Tell the comrade that I understand his distress, but that he is mistaken. I have never been in China before this month. I have never been in Man-ling before. I have never been in a war. I am a rice expert. Say it calmly. Make it sound true."

When she had finished, the old policeman began again, but the president of the commune silenced him. The president's apparent perplexity mirrored expressions around the room. Whom to believe? What to do? The Zhuang, Stratton sensed, were with him. The Han cadres would probably side with the policeman. They were vastly outnumbered, but they had what counted most: authority.

The commune president ran a hand across his brow and seemed on the verge of speaking when a tall man appeared wiping his hands on a towel-the doctor who had bandaged Stratton. The doctor spoke quietly to one of the Zhuang near the door.

The man's face lit up, and he began chattering loudly. In an instant, the entire room was abuzz. Stratton watched the one-armed policeman say something to a slender young man who nodded and hurriedly left the room.

A new crop of smiles blossomed among the peasants, and fresh tears. One woman fainted. In the hubbub, Stratton had to yell to make himself heard.

"What is going on?"

Kangmei squeezed his hand. She was smiling and crying.

"It's the little girl. They thought they had lost her, but now she is breathing well and seems to be out of danger."

"Thank God." For the nameless little girl, and for Thomas Stratton.

One of the peasants who had ridden on the truck with Stratton addressed the commune president.

"He says your goodwill and good intentions are plain for anyone to see and, while he does not dispute Comrade Ma's word, he believes the comrade is mistaken. He says you should be allowed to return to Bright Star now with the thanks of the commune for your heroism."

Kangmei finished her translation amid an assenting chorus from the Zhuang peasants. The commune president chose not-or dared not-to affront the majority.

He nodded slowly and Stratton could almost see him thinking: to hold Stratton on the unsupported word of an overwrought old man would anger the peasants. To release him cost nothing. Tomorrow they could always bring him back in. Stratton sensed that the man was the kind of political bureaucrat who would most of all prefer to make no decision at all. If Stratton were to disappear from the face of the earth, so much the better.

Favoring his leg, Stratton used the wall as a crutch to gain his feet. Kangmei stood at his side.

"Say something graceful and let's go."

Before she could speak, the old policeman fired a fresh stacatto burst.

"He says he knows how people are tired of the memories and the obsessions of an old man who will not forget. But he begs for patience. There is another witness, he says, one who will say positively that you're a murderer and a spy. The witness will come soon."

The commune president sighed resignedly. He would humor a trusted old colleague.

The president spoke briefly and courteously to Kangmei.

"He asks if you would please remain for another few minutes, even though you are tired, so that this matter may be finally resolved without further affecting our friendship."

Stratton shrugged. It was a sugar-coated command, but the worst was over.

Mentally, he ticked off the witnesses who had seen his face that other night in Man-ling. Besides the policeman, only the commissar, the professor and the student. All dead. The policeman should have been, too. There had been no other witnesses.